WHO WON THE BICYCLE?

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Bimb! bang! boom!" and as they shouted out the school cheer, a group of Vilney boys flung up their caps and danced about to catch them again in a fashion that showed they felt much too jolly to keep them decorously on their heads.

It was the first Friday after the fall opening of the High School, and the cause of the cheering was the fact that the next day was the date of the Boys' Olympic Games at the Fair Grounds. The entertainment was quite a novel one, as none but school-boys were allowed to take part, and the prizes offered were pocket-knives, archery sets, tennis outfits, and last, but by no means least, an elegant full-nickel bicycle of the finest make. Cups, silver services, gold medals, and embroidered banners were all cast into the shade by the latter magnificent inducement, to be presented to the winner of the three-mile bicycle race.

The games had been organized and the prizes provided by a wealthy young bachelor who had lately come to reside in the town, and who was exceedingly fond of boys. Nearly every member of the Vilney High School was entered for one or more of the contests, and Olympic Games had been the absorbing topic of conversation for weeks.

One especially interested was Alec Barsbey. He was the son of a farmer who seemed never to make more than enough to support his family, minus luxuries, which perhaps may be accounted for by the fact that he ought not to have been a farmer at all, but a lawyer or minister, for he was so extremely fond of books. Alec inherited his father's taste for learning—a taste which Mr. Barsbey resolved should be cultivated by the best schooling, to be followed by a college course. He was now in his fifteenth year, nearly ready to enter upon the latter, but the severe study had begun to tell upon his health, when he luckily conceived a strong and sudden fondness for bicycling (for as a rule he did not care for sports or games), and on his friend Murray Hart's machine took now and then an invigorating "spin."

Murray lived just across the road from the Barsbeys, and when the rage for "wheels" broke out in town, he was among the first to own one. However, being also the happy possessor of a pony, he divided his time out-of-doors between the two, and as he was a fast friend of Alec's, he was only too happy when he could prevail upon the latter to accept the loan of his machine.

But if the Barsbeys were poor in purse, they were wealthy in a spirit of independence, and it was only after repeated urgings on the part of Murray that Alec could be induced to ride another's property. Yet even with the limited amount of practice he allowed himself, he speedily became an expert "'cyclist," although this fact was not an unmixed pleasure to him, as it only increased his desire to have a machine of his own, which in the present state of the Barsbey finances was quite out of the question.

Now, however, the Olympic Games presented a possible means of obtaining a splendid one, and Alec made haste to hire at the "bi" head-quarters a trusty wheel on which to practice and ride the race.

But while we have been making this lengthy explanation, Friday has passed, and Saturday morning dawned cool and clear.

What a babble of boys' tongues there was in the dressing-room under the grand stand, and what a crush of boys, girls, fathers, mothers, and cousins on top of it!

Mr. Lancewood, the young bachelor, who was as jolly as he was generous, bustled about from performers to public, boys to girls, grown people to children, until everybody began to believe there must be two of him.

Suddenly he stopped, looked at his watch, and then waved his handkerchief. Instantly a clear-toned trumpet proclaimed the opening of the games, and a brass band rattled off a lively air, at the close of which ten boys in flannel shirts and polo caps walked out from the dressing-rooms and toed the mark for the hundred-yard dash. Mr. Lancewood took his station behind them, pistol in hand, while at the other end of the course two young men held a broad reel ribbon between them to indicate the goal.

"One, two, three! Are you ready? [Bang.] Go!" and off shot the ten as if from the pistol itself.

The spectators sprang to their feet in the excitement. But it only lasts an instant; for Charley Brown has distanced Jack Merks by a pace or two, and now comes panting back, with the ribbon streaming from his shoulders.

Then follows the sack race, in which Ed Primstone falls and rolls two steps for every one he attempts to walk, to the irrepressible mirth of all the small boys, and the consternation of his mother.

Next came the potato race, in which each boy was provided with a basket and a row of potatoes, the latter being placed about three feet apart, all the rows of course being of equal length. The task consisted in trying who could first transfer a row of potatoes from the ground to the basket.

But we have not time to further describe this nor the succeeding three-legged race, in which the right and left legs of two boys were tied together, and their arms placed around one another's necks, the object being to run faster than other pairs similarly fettered. We must hasten on to the grand feature of the programme, the bicycle race, the riders in which presently made their appearance on the track trundling their machines.

There were five entries for the contest—Frank Le Grand, Harry Clare, Dick Summers, Murray Hart, and Alec Barsbey. The latter is pale but determined-looking, and there is that in the ease with which he slides into his seat that causes a by-stander to remark, "That slim young fellow in the blue shirt doesn't make much show, but he has the look of both speed and endurance."

The start was to be from the saddle, and the distance twenty-one times around the track, which latter was simply marked out with lime, as a barrier offering any resistance was apt to prove dangerous.

Quickly and quietly the five lads range themselves in line, with the help of their friends, and when the word is given, off they glide, all abreast, on their smooth-running steeds. Very soon, however, Harry Clare shoots ahead, and a great shout goes up from the spectators as he keeps the lead for the remainder of the first lap.

But sharp eyes can see that he is overexerting himself too early in the race, and now the applause of the multitude inspires him to an additional spurt, which so exhausts him that he is soon obliged to materially slacken his speed.

Alec and Murray Hart keep together for round after round, and it is evident that both are saving themselves for the finish.

Frank Le Grand comes next, not far behind; but poor Dick Summers is soon dropped "out of sight," so to speak, and before making the tenth lap he rides outside the line, dismounts, and resting his elbow on the saddle, good-naturedly turns his attention to cheering on the others.

By this time Alec has left Murray, and is rapidly gaining on Clare, who now reaps the fruits of his over-enthusiasm at the start. He loses inch after inch of his lead, until finally Alec dashes past him amid the wild cheers of the spectators and a special burst of brass from the band.

Harry, however, has no intention of giving up so easily; for after his friends have provided him with a match or two to chew on, he appears to feel re-inspired, and rolls around the track with old-time swiftness.

And now the excitement begins in earnest. Frank Le Grand having followed Dick's example, there are only three competitors left; and as Murray seems to be taking things pretty comfortably, all eyes are centred on Alec and Harry. The former is exerting every nerve, resolved not to take second place again, while Clare seems as determined that he shall.

Around and around they fly, their noiseless movements lending an additional interest to the race. They look neither to the right nor left, except that Alec, every time he approaches a certain spot opposite the grand stand, gives a single glance toward one corner of it.

"Keep it up, Harry!"

"Go it, Alec!"

"Catch 'em, Murray!"

These and other cries, sent forth with the full power of youthful lungs, urge their subjects on to victory, and presently keen observers can trace a gradual widening of the breach between Barsbey and his pursuer. Both boys are working terribly hard, and an on-looker not accustomed to such contests, and ignorant of the careful training that is supposed to precede them, might expect to see one or both lads fall in their tracks.

Suddenly Alec gives an extra spurt, and an instant later reaches the point where he is in the habit of throwing his strange glance toward the grand stand. True to his custom, he raises his eyes, and at once a troubled expression overspreads his face. Then, instead of continuing on for his triumphant eighteenth lap, to the amazement of all he steers into the centre field and quickly dismounts. He leaves his machine lying on the grass, runs back across the track, and disappears among the crowd on the stand.

What can it mean? He has certainly not given out, or he could not have moved about so easily. A number of the boys, in their curiosity, hurry over to examine Alec's machine, but a warning shout from Murray turns the general attention back to the race between the only two now remaining in it.

Harry seems to be completely exhausted, while Hart, who is only half a lap behind now, appears to be almost as fresh as at the start. Harry makes a feeble final effort, and thus causes the race, amid the wildest excitement, to result in a tie.

What was to be done? The bicycle could not be presented to both, nor could the race be repeated later on, as the games were now over.

In the midst of the discussion Murray disappeared, for he was anxious to find out what had happened to Alec. Somebody had seen him leave the grounds; so, tired as he was, Hart mounted his machine and posted off to the Barsbeys'. He met Alec at the gate, just coming out.

"Who won?" was the latter's first question; but Murray did not answer it.

"Tell me, Alec Barsbey," he exclaimed, "why on earth you dropped out of that race?"

The other colored, glanced back toward the house, and then linking arms with his friend, drew him out toward the orchard as he replied: "I'll tell you, Murray, but don't look so fierce about it. You know how nervous mother is? Well, I told her she'd better not come to the games if she thought she'd worry about me; but she declared she'd worry worse if she didn't keep me in sight. She's never very well, and any overexcitement may bring on one of her bad turns. At first I didn't know what to do about it. I hated to give up the race, although I knew that was the safest plan, and at the same time didn't want to run the risk of frightening mother into another sick spell. Then I thought of a way to fix matters, which was to have mother go with father, and take a seat near the entrance where I could see her every time I came around. She was to carry in her pocket a green silk handkerchief, which I believe once belonged to some Irish ancestor of the family, and when she found the excitement was becoming too much for her nerves she was to wave it, and I would stop at once—which I did, as you saw, and just in time, too, for she hated to give the sign, and had nearly fainted. Father and I helped her out, brought her home, and now she's all right. Of course I'm no end sorry to have missed the finish, but then it would have been dreadful to have gone on and let mother suffer. And now tell me who's won the machine."

"You have," cried Murray; "and if you'll go up to your room and rest, and promise not to stir out of it until I come back in about fifteen minutes, I'll have it brought over and duly presented."

"But why can't I go—" began Alec.

"Hush! not a word!" returned his friend, authoritatively. "Imagine your mother's feelings if you should go near those grounds again to-day! Now go in and tell her the good news, with my compliments."

"But I don't see how I could have won, when—" but Murray was already speeding off on his "wheel," and Alec could do nothing else than wait patiently for him to come back.

When Mr. Lancewood heard the story of the green silk handkerchief he hailed it as the best solution possible of the difficulty caused by the tie to announce Alexander Barsbey as winner of the bicycle.

Harry Clare declared that no way of settling the matter could have pleased him better, while as for Murray, he hurried back to the Barsbeys' so eagerly that he took two "headers" in one block.

Of course the machine itself could not be presented until the size of the winner was known. Murray had forgotten this fact when he promised Alec to return with the prize, but the precious slip of paper Mr. Lancewood had given him to deliver answered every purpose.

The bicycle, which was truly a beauty, arrived early the next week, and all Vilney affirms that it was most bravely won.